


Loathe the One You're With

by leestone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Also no redeeming themes or social value, Angry Sex, Banter, Bela's Rad, Dean's Mad, F/M, Hate Sex, Just a terrible terrible piece of smut, Making Bela Great Again 2016, No Romance, No point either really, PWP, They're DTF, just bad, not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-12
Packaged: 2018-06-07 22:26:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6827692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leestone/pseuds/leestone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever, haters. I'll be over here eating licorice jellybeans and watching Dean revenge-bang the hot snob.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loathe the One You're With

“Mm, do it, you little bastard--you little shit, oh yes--”

 

“No,” Dean said, sharply. “That's not what I want. Don't, um.”

 

“Lord,” she muttered. “What now.”

 

He looked away, cheeks burning. “I just mean, I don't like that. The whole angry sex...thing.”

 

She laughed and ground her hips into his. “Yes, I can feel how much you're hating it.”

 

“Stop!” He grimaced. “God, I get it, okay? You hate me, I hate you. We can't kill each other--”

 

“Speak for yourself.”

 

“--so we're doing this instead, fine, whatever. Does it have to sting like a goddamn tetanus shot?”

 

“Well _there's_ a ringing endorsement of your sexual prowess,” Bela said. “You're really lathering me up now, cowboy.”

 

“I'm serious!” Dean shoved himself off her. “Look. I spend any given Tuesday getting thrown through walls or blown up or shot or just generally beat to shit. You're a hunter, everyone wants a piece. Pain's in the job description, right? I can't complain. But when I have...” He cleared his throat, blinking up at the ceiling. “I'm not looking to get tortured in the sack too, okay? Can't we just let it go for a few hours? Or...pretend, or something?”

 

“Pretend.” She was quiet for so long that he glanced at her, apprehensive. She was looking back at him. Her expression was difficult to read.

 

Slowly, cautiously, she rolled herself on top, the soft insides of her thighs scissoring his hips; their noses were almost touching. Her breasts were flush with his chest now and she inhaled deeply once, twice, in and out to his rhythm, still staring into his eyes. He swallowed hard. She smiled.

 

“Pretend like this?” she whispered, brushing her mouth over the pulse in his throat. He shivered and looked away, biting his lip.

 

“Like...this?” The tip of her tongue darted once against the underside of his jaw. Her hands ran slow circuits up and down his biceps, smoothing the balls of his shoulders, the livid edges of his angel's mark.

 

They took their time, skins breaking out in sheens of sweat. She suckled his neck and nipples, lapping salt, while her hips slid and and circled in a soft grind that fluttered the muscles in his belly. “Like _this_ , tiger?”

 

“Yeah,” he said, all breath.

 

She pulled back to take in the high heat in his cheeks, his fists knotted in the sheets. Wondered at his refusal to touch her: was it scruple? Some arbitrary moral line? Then she looked again at the hands flexing in linen, his full, flushed erection, and startled with the knowledge that he was teasing himself--that it was all part of their game, this helplessness and denial, and she said aloud, softly, “You”.

 

When she took him in her hand, his whole body lifted. Electric, the tension of him in this state, a taut wire begging to be plucked. Their eyes met and he grew, impossibly, harder; for the first time she understood the phrase _drunk with power_.

 

She licked her palm and stroked him in a tight grip just to watch his jaw clench, then drop. It did, and the throaty noise he made left her lightheaded and greedy, mean and melting and ripe as a plum between her thighs.

 

A hitch of the hips, a brief arch and she was there, and he was there, stirring just inside. Lovely to hover, make him squirm before taking him. But they were too far gone to draw out the tease and she eased herself down onto him, murmuring, “You're doing it, I feel you--ah!” They both shuddered. “Pretending you want this. Mm, I can _feel_ you.” It was so slow, his mouth so wet and open.

 

She reached down, untangled his hands from the bedclothes. “Take it,” she said, cupping one gently to her breast, pulling the other to the damp small of her back, “take it, anything you want --”

 

And then she said nothing for a long time, just urged him with breaths, folding over him like poured syrup as he lifted her by the waist and worked her, his hips rolling up and up. After a few thrusts she let her eyes slip shut. A weightless feeling spooled in her belly, weirdly reassuring; his hands cradled and drove her, her own hips bucking and back straight, now, while he surged under and up, impaling her steadily, a slow hard ride--

 

(Somewhere in her throat a tightness, pain prickling in a matchpoint as she smelled cold wind, felt again the rush of air tightening nipples under wool, her daybreak flights from home, easy canter over cut wet grass--sleek muscles frothing sweat, taut in the flank--creak and jingle of tack, saddle leather rubbing, back, forth, pommel press and slide and _there,_ oh--)

 

When she leaned into him, the scent of leather rose from sweat glossing his nape, his faintly-freckled collarbones. “Oh, my god,” she whispered, maddened, clenching uncontrollably and speeding up.

 

Silent still, he pushed himself up, arms strutted behind, knees bent to brace his feet against the mattress while he pivoted his hips faster. Their breaths mingled and raced, mouths inches apart, and he gave her a narrow, searching look. Didn't ask: _Where'd you go?_ Just fucked her with sleek momentum and it wasn't long until his own head fell back, throat arched, mouth open and teeth flashing to bite back the orgasm. They teetered on the brink, tightening--

 

In a flash she rolled herself up and off.  

 

Both of them cried out. She stumbled back, canting herself against the wall, and snatched a water bottle off the nightstand. Took a long pull, watched him flop back on the bed. “Nn,” he moaned. “Oh, shit. _Shit_.” One shaky hand splayed over his belly, cock pulsing dark and full below; he dragged the other across his eyes, grappled for breath. His hips still ground a little into the air.

 

She upturned the bottle over his head.

 

The first splash arched him up onto his elbows, gasping. But the bottle was full and the pour lasted longer than she'd have guessed, nearly five seconds--five seconds of his body rigid from the shock of it, chest heaving with rivulets streaming down, glossing over black whorls of tattoo, chasing his nipples to lap cool at his erection and puddle in the hollow of sheets beneath his balls.

 

He shook his head like a dog, hair a wet-gold disorder, and blinked up at her. Droplets hung from his lashes.

 

The bottle bounced off his forehead with a hollow _thunk!_

 

He lunged at her and she dodged a second too late, so that they collided in a slippery-damp tangle on the wall, grappling fast and ruthless till he pinned her with a wet palm at her breast, thumb strumming nipple, the heel of his other hand wedged firm at the juncture of her thighs. He massaged her a little there, forced her onto the balls of her feet, wallpaper sanding her buttocks and making her whimper.

 

“We still _pretending_?” she managed.

 

He leaned in, his _Shh_ just a wind on her forehead; then his thumb found her clit and worked it softly, easing her body right back down.

 

“Shhh,” he said again. Somehow it worked, the crowding close and brush of his lips on her temple almost tender. She hung there hating him, liquefying, her flurry of heartbeats pumping south as he gentled her with pleasure till her bottom spanked the wall to the rhythm of his hand.   Without breaking those firm easy caresses he slid down her body, lips and tongue lathing her throat, then each nipple in turn, sucking and nipping at the undersides of her breasts before planting a last wet swipe in her navel.

 

She looked down and there he was, on his knees--his _knees_!--the sight dragging a sharp, satisfied hiss of another kind from her; he glanced up at the sound and their eyes met. His were heavy-lidded, pupils blown with something that was not humiliation, despite that lovely blush. And his cock was harder than ever, seemed to stiffen further as he stared up from the floor.

 

He held the look as he skimmed his fingers down through her moisture and then slid two, three of them deeply, churningly up inside, and out, and in again. Held it as he leaned to press an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh, the muscles fluttering beneath his tongue, held it as he inhaled and nuzzled the damp skin there, fingers still riding into the tight slick channel.

 

Held it as he asked, deliberately slow and loud, “May I _please_ fuck you with my mouth now?”

 

Which, all right, even she had to admit was funny, or at least well-timed; so she rewarded him with her whitest, winningest smile, and he returned it with interest then stopped moving.

 

Her hips twitched.

 

His smile widened.

 

“So what are you waiting for?” she asked, struggling for patience.

 

“I told you...” He sighed and drove the fingers. “Permission.”

 

“Fine! Whatever.” Her body rolled. Wet glossy spikes of his hair were tickling her inner thighs.

 

“Mm-mm. Not good enough.” He shook his head, ended with his nose brushing her damp curls.

 

“Oh, for--god _damn_ you, do it already--”

 

“Still not getting you,” he said, hooking an arm behind her buttocks to tilt her hips out. “Is that a yes?”

 

She pulled his chin up, glaring. “What do you think?”

 

But he shrugged her hand off and buried his face. She gasped. “I think,” he said--tongue darting at her on his _th_ , tasting her as his lips rounded on the words--“I _think_ somebody pointed out that I'm not very good at thinking, once. So maybe I better just, you know. Wait for the go-ahead.”

 

“Go. Ahe--”

 

“And what?” The smile was gone, and the fingers. “...Go ahead and _what?”_

Her fists grated on wallpaper. “And here I thought the 'angry sex thing' was beneath you.”

 

“What can I say?” he said, nosing at the crease where thigh met pelvis. “You're really selling me on it.”

 

“What I'd like,” she replied, tangling her fingers in his hair to drag his head back again, “is to _really sell you_ on the black market. Sex slave, organ harvest, all the same to me, tiger. But till I've got that case of cash cuffed to my wrist--” She raised a foot and slid its bridge firmly against the underside of his cock, binding the balls up, making him jerk. “--you're _my_ property, to do with as I please. So I'll have your mouth when I want it, and I'll have your ass, and any other part of your body I fancy. Am I clear?” The foot pressed and rolled. When his lips parted in a pant, she fingered herself idly and drew the moisture across his lips.

 

He licked at what she'd fed him. “Tastes familiar,” he whispered, and she drove a hand hard across his face.

 

“Don't get nostalgic on me,” she said, sneering, and turned to brace her arms against the wall.

 

No pretending anymore; when he slid in now it was rough and punishing and perfect, splitting her without mercy. He fucked in short ragged jabs, hands clamped bruise-tight on her hips, lifting her nearly off her feet with each thrust. Had her that way for a while, riding hard so that the faded cabbage roses scratched her nipples pink, then swung her around in a tangle of feet and bent her over the arm of the sofa.

 

All the while she was grinding up into him as much as she was able, the rapid snap and shutter of his hips crackling pleasure like firecrackers up and down her spine, heat pooling where he screwed into her. Then he was dragging her up again, cock never slowing, doing her upright with a hand curved over her throat, another splayed low at her belly, pressing her back as he pistoned in and in, tighter still and wetter, until little cries came humming out under his hand and her head dropped back onto his shoulder.

 

“Give it up,” he murmured against her cheek. The hand on her belly slid down to work her, thrummed at her clit for a second before she squirmed away, wrenching herself off to stagger backwards to the soaked sheets, watching him stalk her steps with his whole height drawn tense, both of them hard-eyed and panting for it now.

 

He was on her in two seconds, in her again by three. Tight, controlled thrusts shook the bed and her breasts; he gripped her knee, dragged it up his side.

 

“ _Give it up_ ,” he told her again, dipping down to bite at her ear, not too gently.

 

“You first,” she gasped, damned if she would lose it in front of him. She writhed up and searched his face for an unravelling, the loss of control she needed to see.

 

But he just chuckled and kept his pace, driving her like a machine.   “Not this time," he swore through clenched teeth. "C'mon, give it up for me, I want to watch your face this time. _”_

 

Her whole body stiffened. A cold switch flipped in her mind.  

 

She curled her other leg around his waist, made a show of turning her face into the pillow. Her eyes fluttered shut. “You'll make me,” she said, low in her throat. “You'll do it to me again, make me come. Oh god, it's going to be so big, Dean.”

 

There it was, the hitch in his breath, tiny enough to miss if she hadn't been listening for it. _Aha_ , she thought. “Dean,” she whimpered, “Dean.” Fitted a hand at the base of his spine, felt a tremor starting there as he moved.

 

“Shh, I've got you, you're okay.” And yeah, no question, voice quaking beneath the gravel now, breath fast and skin slick against her, hotter by degrees each time she said the magic word.

 

“Fuck, _Dean_ \--!” This time he whimpered too, heat flooding his face and eyes screwing shut. She cupped her other palm to his cheek, arched her body up into his and drew a breath, fed him everything he'd never known he needed to hear. “Oh god Dean, please give it to me, don't stop, don't! Oh _fuck_ , you're strong, Dean! Do it, do it, hold me when I come--”

 

“Quit it,” he begged, but he was lifting her, curling into her against his will. Her eyes were laser crosshairs on his face while she babbled and cried, “Tighter, mm! hold me, Dean, stay with me! I need you, don't leave me!”

 

It hit him harder than the slap, lit him on fire; his throat arched and something like a sob tore loose. His thrusts were long, rolling now, no longer measured but reckless and free, desperate pleasure coiling with each stroke even while he choked out, “-- _stop_ \--”

 

“Don't leave me,” she pressed softly, watching his face twist, eyes gone wide and wet, and she tightened her thighs to feel him trembling on the brink-- “Please, don't ever leave me, I'll never leave you--I love you, Dean, I love you, I love you so much--”

 

He came helplessly, his whole body rocking into surrender; not brutal but with a terrible raw tenderness more shocking than violence. The waves from it tossed and racked him until he'd pulsed himself limp, still shuddering everywhere above and around her--hands plunging into her hair, lips devouring through his moans, their first kiss.

 

When his vision refocused and the room righted itself, he found her laughing into his mouth. 

 

She laughed and laughed. Laughed as he jerked back and tumbled off the bed. Laughed when he ripped the clock off the nightstand and hurled it across the room, shattering a mirror; laughed at his ragged breaths and the curses he was too hoarse to scream at her, suddenly, filthy swearwords dragged in a stream like bile from his throat. He stood naked with his back turned, hands curled over shaking shoulders, while she treated herself to a toe-curling stretch across the bed.

 

“ _How!_ ” He sounded throttled. “How can you--”

 

“Easy.” She swung herself up, steps light into the bathroom without bothering to close the door. “They're words. Just words. Good morning. Scotch, straight up. I love you. Pass the salt.” She smoothed cool water over her cheeks, gave herself a level look in the mirror, said again: “Only words after all.” 

 

Coming out, she felt the cold air first. Her nipples—still tight—gave a twinge in the draft as her eyes caught up to her skin: He'd left the door wide open when he'd run. An eddy of snow curled onto the carpet as she watched, mouth opening then closing.

 

“Oh, you stupid little fool,” she murmured at last. And reached for the gun an instant before she snatched up her coat.


End file.
